


The Greatest Love Story Never Told

by NimWallace



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes (1984 TV), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Complete, Electroconvulsive Therapy, Heavy Angst, M/M, Non-Consensual Electroconvulsive Therapy, Period-Typical Homophobia, Prison, True Love, Victorian Attitudes, Victorian Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-05
Updated: 2019-04-11
Packaged: 2019-10-23 02:33:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 17
Words: 14,768
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17674772
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NimWallace/pseuds/NimWallace
Summary: When their relationship is revealed and Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson face prison for gross indecency, Holmes has only one thought in his mind: protecting Watson.He'll do anything to make sure the doctor is safe, including alienating him.Will they make it back to each other?





	1. 1895

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by tumblr user i-need-you-buddy :)  
> Post Script: I messed with the canon timelines a bit here for the sake of the story.

“Mr Holmes, are you aware of the charges brought against you?”  
He rocks on his feet for a moment and resists a bitter smile.  
“Yes.”  
“And have you any denial of these charges?”  
“No.”

“Then it is decided. Sherlock Holmes, you are formally sentenced to two years in prison for gross indecency towards men.”  
  


_6 months earlier_

 

“Holmes, Lestrade is here.”  
Holmes hums and jumps from his chair.  
“This had better be a good one, Watson,” he declares as he strides to the door. “This month has been a slow one for the criminal world. Come in, Inspector.”  
Lestrade shuffles into the room, his jittery eyes bugging about.  
“Dr Watson, Mr Holmes,” he says. “You must forgive my intrusion, I—“  
“You have something then, Lestrade?” Holmes says impatiently. Lestrade looks down, and Holmes takes a closer look at him. His clothes are ruffled, his hair a bit more unruly than usual. He rushed out of his flat this morning. There is a stain of coffee on his jacket. The matter is urgent, then. It is sensitive and personal, judging by his demeanor. This man was not just carrying news, he was carrying _bad_ news.  
“Inspector, you look positively shaken,” Watson declares, taking the jacket from the Yarder's shoulders. “Are you feeling ill?”  
“No, doctor, I'm well, thank you,” Lestrade says firmly. “Perhaps we should sit down.”  
A bit startled, both men comply. Holmes has not seen the Inspector so shaken in a while, and it shocks him a bit. Something very grim indeed has happened. For a fleeting moment, he hopes perhaps it is just some outside tragedy the Yarder wants him to look into, but he can plainly see now from the tightened features of his face it is not so.  
“I'm afraid, gentlemen, you are both under investigation by Scotland Yard.”  
There is a heavy silence for a moment.  
Lestrade is absolutely still, as if afraid. Watson shifts slightly in his chair. Holmes says nothing for several seconds, momentarily stunned.  
“Under investigation for what?” he manages finally.  
Lestrade fidgets with his hat in his hands.  
“Gross indecency,” he says.  
And then both the doctor and detective go pale.  
  
The affair started about a month ago.  
The events at Reichenbach Falls three years ago had shaken both men. Holmes had just returned, and falling back into a routine was no easy task. Watson was withdrawn, often times he would look happy for a moment, then return to his cold demeanor.  
Holmes understood. Watson had explained to him (quite loudly) that his way of returning was cruel, and that the three years of his absence were utterly devastating. He made it abundantly clear that it would take him some time to recover from the incident and forgive Holmes. (Though later he would write up their reunion in a very different manner).  
Holmes knew that he would have to earn back Watson's trust. He had betrayed the man who had been nothing but selfless and loyal to him.  
Though he told Watson vehemently that the reason he did not correspond with him during his time abroad was because he feared _Watson_ revealing he had survived, in truth he was petrified that one of Moriarty's men would learn of the correspondence and target him. He would never forgive himself if he caused harm to his only friend.  
So there were those weeks of strain between them, when they both thought that their relationship may never be repaired to what it was. It was a frightening time.  
Holmes was miserable in this state, even more miserable than he had been when he had hidden his true feelings from his companion for so long. His sadness now was bordering on something dangerous, a pit of depression he could not crawl out of. Even the sight of Watson's face would send him tumbling into a mess of emotions.  
He had known his inclinations towards men since he was a boy, and for the most part he kept this part of him tucked away. He created an image of a sexless, loveless man. Though Watson wrote this, he did not buy into it himself.  
It was early that May that Holmes finally admitted what Watson had never dared hope to be true; he was hopelessly in love with him.  
The relationship began torrid, they had years of locked away feelings to get out, but the waters calmed into something more comfortable, something much gentler and sweeter than Holmes had ever imagined. This was the way they were always meant to be.  
A week into their relationship that Oscar Wilde was charged with gross indecency towards men.  
This, of course, sent them into a state of anxiety. They heard other inverts were fleeing to university towns, but Holmes did not want to leave London.  
Holmes had become much more renowned since the publication of Watson's stories, and even more now that he had apparently come back from the dead. The press wanted his opinion on the trial as a detective. He would not give it to them.  
There were rumors in the papers that he and Watson had appeared at a molly house together. Holmes assumed that this, with other even wilder false rumors, would die on its own. He was wrong.  
Instead, more and more papers were covering “The New Oscar Wilde”. The press was starving for a new story with Wilde away behind bars. Eyewitnesses claimed they caught the two men conducting inappropriate behavior left and right. Aynonmous tips were sent to the police.  
Holmes never imagined it would amount to a real investigation.  
But now here he is, as he sits next to Watson and across from Lestrade, looking at him almost pleadingly.  
He has only one thought in his mind:  
_Save John._  


 


	2. The Investigation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! So I was asked if I'd consider double spacing to make it easier to read, but I'm not sure I can copy and paste it and have it still be double-spaced, and there isn't an option for it in here. So I don't know if this will be double-spaced or not, but if it is, please let me know whether or not you prefer it.

Lestrade is murmuring apologies and putting on his coat.   
Holmes should be yelling at him, but he knows it is not really the Inspector's fault, and besides that, there are more pressing things.   
As Lestrade closes the door, there are several moments during which Holmes finds he cannot breathe. It takes him several arduous moments before he is able to fully regain himself.   
He knows there is nothing, absolutely nothing, which can repair this moment.   
Then there is a firm, clenching squeeze in his chest as he realizes, to his horror, Watson is _weeping_.   
He nearly loses it there, but somehow keeps himself together as he crouches in front of Watson's chair. Watson is emotional, but he is not the type of man to weep. Holmes had only seen him do so thrice in the length of their companionship.   
“My dear,” Holmes says, and the words are quieter than he means them to be. He has done this. This is is his fault.   
“Oh, I'm sorry, Holmes,” Watson says in a breathy voice. “I—I've—“   
“Shh. It's all right.”   
They sit for several moments in stillness.   
“What will we do?” Watson finally says faintly. Holmes has already formed his plan, and he knows it will be a difficult one. There is an overwhelming sadness that crushes him as he looks into Watson's face and prepares himself to lie.   
“We will be fine,” he says. “Just let me take care of it.”   
  
  


Over the next several weeks, Holmes prepares himself for court.   
The Yard take care of their investigation quietly, despite the public's demand for information. It comes time that the Yard must question both men.   
Holmes is fully prepared for this. As Detective Gregson leads him to an interrogation room, his story is ready.   
He knows Watson will defend him. He knows that Watson will try to protect him. He _must_ make sure that that does not happen, or it will result with both of them in prison.   
Instead, when Gregson asks about their relationship, he answers with more honesty than the detective was expecting.   
“Yes, I have maintained a romantic relationship with my friend Dr Watson.”   
This shocks Gregson a bit, and Holmes sees disgust crawl over his features, but ignores it. It is crucial to his plan that everyone in the Yard is aware of at least part of the truth.  
“How did this come about?” Gregson huffs, and doesn't meet Holmes's eyes.  
“It was entirely my influence,” Holmes says, and Gregson looks up at him with interest. “You see,” Holmes continues, “It is true that I had a lust for Dr Watson, but it was not his fault that he complied. He has never been able to deny one of my whims, and I influenced him to do this for my own benefit.”   
Gregson writes this down. Holmes has essentially signed a confession. He knows that the Yarder will not suspect him of protecting his friend—after all, in their eyes, homosexuality was purely sexual. They made no connection between it and love.   
“Dr Watson has been married as well,” Holmes says. “A happy marriage at that. She died of cholera, poor thing. But I can assure you that before my influence, Dr Watson was a happy, healthy man. With a bit of treatment, he will return to his former self.”   
This too, a lie.   
Gregson nods, and continues his questions about when the affair started and such, and Holmes answers them with as much truth as he can, and hopes Watson will do well for himself in the other room.   
  
  


When they exist the room, Gregson has no choice but to hold him in a cell.   
Holmes goes willingly.   
It is small, and smells of wet mold. He has been in many prison cells before, but never as the criminal. Gregson tells him they will arrange a preliminary hearing.   
There will be no need for Holmes to appear in front of a jury, because he plans on pleading guilty.

 


	3. The Preliminary Hearing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! Now that I'm finished with Black County, I'll be able to give this fic my full attention now :)

Watson is no doubt demanding to know where Holmes has gone, and Holmes prays he will not make a fool of himself in doing so.   
Holmes can imagine what Gregson is telling him now: “We understand the situation better now, sir. We understand what's happened.” And Watson is, without question, fuming.   
Holmes knows, and the knowledge burdens him, that Watson will have it explained to him what Holmes has said.  
He will feel betrayed. He will feel heartbroken.   
And though that alone turns Holmes's stomach, those things are better than what awaits him in prison.   
The preliminary hearing is set for next week, and Holmes already has his fate in check.   
  
He is not allowed to see Watson until after sentencing. He sits many days in his cell, the doctor's face turning over in his mind, a thick pit of guilt in his stomach. He knows he is protecting John, and he knows it will hurt them both in the process. He is preparing himself for the separation, but knows he cannot. Even these few days apart ache.   
He attempts, in earnest, to think up little problems in his head for him to solve, but the cell grows more stagnant with each passing day.   
He has not seen Lestrade for all the time he's been in Scotland Yard's custody, which irritates him. A part of him blames Lestrade for this enter ordeal, though another part of him knows the DI could not have stopped it if he tried. He certainly didn't choose to launch the investigation.   
No, Lestrade was aware of their relationship. He was not so bad a detective as to overlook it—he'd stumbled upon them one day in a fervent kiss by mistake, he'd left his coat in 221b. Holmes could still feel the cold, piercing fear that gripped him when he realized his mistake. Watson was already making excuses for Holmes, jumping to protect him, but Lestrade had smiled feebly.   
“I'm not so bad a detective, you know,” he'd said.   
And that had really been the end of the matter.   
Few others are aware. Mrs Hudson considers herself to be an old woman who has no time to trifle in other peoples' affairs or, in other words, was happy to be quiet about it.   
Mycroft. Mycroft knows. Mycroft, who is unmarried and will always remain so, Mycroft who had no interest in girls nor boys for his entire adolescence and into his adulthood.   
Holmes does not know what Mycroft was, what he thinks of sex and romance, but he certainly doesn't seem bothered by it in other people.   
Personal talk between the Holmes brothers has always been quiet, and Sherlock prefers it that way.   
So there are people who love them, despite who they are. They have friends, people who care about them, are ready to stand behind them if need be.   
But as Holmes lay on the cot in his cell the night before the preliminary hearing, there is only one person he needs to protect.   
And that is John Watson.   
  
  
The guards allow him a change of clothes, which is greatly relieving.   
Holmes has always been one to dress sharply and takes great care in his appearance, that is—the days he does not lounge about in his dressing gown playing with chemicals.   
The ride to the Crown Court is stale, and his stomach churns as he replays his plan in his mind.   
He had chosen to represent himself, so no lawyer has been called upon for him. Instead, he walks alone into the courtroom, alone with two large men beside him, as if he plans to run.   
There are very few people in the room.   
Detectives, the Justice of the Supreme Court, and John Watson.   
John Watson does not look at him as he passes to the front of the room, but Holmes looks at him.   
No, he cannot, and will not change his mind.

“William Sherlock Scott Holmes,” the Justice begins. “Do you know the charges brought against you?” “Yes, my lord.”   
“And you understand these charges?”   
“Yes.”   
“What do you plead, sir?”   
Watson looks up from his seat, finally looking at Holmes.   
“I intend to offer you a plea bargain, my lord.”   
The justice looks at him for a moment, considering. His eyes are large and inquisitive, his face angular and mustached.   
“What is your offer, sir?” he says finally.  
“I will plead guilty, on the condition that John Watson serves no time in prison.”   
This surprises both the Justice and Watson, who looks at Holmes.  
This time, Holmes is the one who cannot meet his eyes.   
“No time in prison?” the Justice says. He considers this some more. “All right,” he says finally. “I, Justice of the Supreme Court of his Majesty Edward VII, accept the plea made by William Sherlock Scott Holmes, to plead guilty with conditions. Sentencing will be held November 5th, Year of our Lord 1895, at 1300 hours. Court dismissed.”   
Holmes walks away with a bit more relief, a bit less pain on his chest, a bit more hope in his heart.   
  


 

 

  
  
  


 


	4. God In the Dark

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to delve more into Holmes's childhood here. The idea of him going to Catholic school as a boy had been in the back of my mind--the idea of the kind priest came to me only as I was writing :)

John Watson pleads guilty (Holmes hears this from his cell one foggy morning). With Holmes's confession, there is no reason for a trial. His sentencing his scheduled for shortly after Holmes's.  
  
Holmes takes a liking to a certain small growth in his cell that he did not expect.  
It is a dandelion ( _taraxacum)_ that has gradually started to peak between a crack in the cement floor. With the help of the scarce patch of sunlight from his window, it starts to grow.  
Holmes gives it a drink of his water every day, deciding that nurturing it will be a helpful distraction. The small flower thrives under his careful care.  
Holmes has always enjoyed flowers. He takes them to be one of the greatest privileges of life itself—an extra, an unnecessary, brilliant piece of life, put on earth only for the enjoyment of the people on it. Holmes has never been one to believe in God, not truly, but sometimes, in his most quiet moments, looking at the dandelion, he wonders if maybe there is something larger than anything, watching.  
When he was a boy, Holmes had gone to a private, Catholic school. For him, it had been Hell on earth. He was disliked, dismissed, laughed at, not only by his peers, but by his instructors.  
But there was one bit of life shining through that school that he has always remembered, and that was Priest Wentworth.  
Father Wentworth was what Holmes believed to be a truly godly man. He took special attention to Holmes as a boy, sharing bits of wisdom in the large cathedral.  
“Sherlock,” he would say, “most men only believe in God in the dark. Once we are in the dark, then God is there too, when we are afraid, when we are helpless. Do you understand?”  
Holmes, who had only been fourteen at the time, nodded.  
“Good. I see much of His light in you, child. I think He will use you for wonderful things. God always uses people like you for brilliant things.”  
“People like me?” Sherlock said.  
“You feel rejected. You feel alone, afraid. You feel like an anomaly. God will use that. We are all His children, every one of us the same. My child, I promise you are not a mistake, you have not flown away from Him.”  
Holmes often remembers those days by the alter with Father Wentworth. He was one of the few at the school truly non corrupt, and the only who believed in Holmes. Father Wentworth never turned someone away when they needed help, never denied a man access to his church for any reason. Holmes thinks, even now, with his conviction, Father Wentworth would still let him kneel at that alter and bear his soul to him, without a word of judgment from his lips.  
And when Holmes lays in his cell that night, shadows filling in around him, he thinks of the parish again.  
He was right.  
Men do believe in God in the dark.

 

 

He is nervous, the day of his sentencing.  
Though he has already predicted what the exact outcome will be, still his mind races that he could be wrong—that it could be longer, worse.  
He is handcuffed when he walks out of his cell, and they rub against his wrists until they are red and raw. The guard has put them on too tight.  
Again, he is allowed to bathe for much longer than normal and is permitted fresh clothes. For the first time in days, he can tolerate his own odor.  
His discomfort with the handcuffs only grows on the ride to court. When he is let out, he murmurs to the guard to please loosen them.  
The guard only smirks and tightens them yet more.  
Inside the court, there are people waiting to spectate.  
Unlike the preliminary hearing, people are allowed to go to the sentencing. Excited murmurs filled the large, wide room. The Justice sits on his throne above the courtroom, patiently tolerating the noise.  
There are both men and women here, non discreet about ogling Holmes as he is brought in. They have surely heard of the plea bargain he has made.  
Holmes spots Watson in the crowd, and feels a familiar spark of comfort. He is, at least, not completely alone here.  
The Justice calls the courtroom to order, and an eerie silence falls over it.  
The Justice clears his throat and brings a paper to his eyes.  
“William Sherlock Scott Holmes, after being charged with Gross Indecency Towards men, you plead guilty in exchange for a plea, is that so?”  
“Yes, my Lord.”  
The Justice himself has already decided Holmes's fate. There is no need for magistrates or a jury, not in a Crown Court when Holmes has already plead guilty.  
No, the Justice already knows what is to happen.  
“Mr Holmes, are you aware of the charges brought against you?”  
He rocks on his feet for a moment and resists a bitter smile.  
“Yes.”  
“And have you any denial of these charges?”  
“No.”  
“Then it is decided. Sherlock Holmes, you are formally sentenced to two years in prison for gross indecency towards men.”  
  


 


	5. The Visitors

Holmes is transferred directly to Newgate Prison. He does not learn what happens to his dandelion in his old cell.  
  
At Newgate, he is given prison garb and put into a cell. Ironically enough, he has been in Newgate before, to interview criminals. Now he is the criminal.  
He must share a bunk with another man, something that causes him mild anxiety. He knows he is strong enough to hold his own against most of the men here, but he fears he could be overpowered if several people targeted him. It is entirely possible he will be recognized. He chooses to stay alert.  
His cellmate is called Hugo Armistead. His teeth are yellow and crooked, his face wrinkled together like a bunched up curtain. To Holmes's relief, the man is old and poses no threat to him. He is imprisoned for robbery.  
“'Ow long will ye be here?” Hugo rasps when Holmes enters his cell. Holmes fights back a gag at the man's odor.  
“Five years,” Holmes says softly. “You've been here ten?”  
“Yessir. 'Ow'd ye know?”  
Holmes curled up on his cot and turned his back to the man.  
“Your trouser leg,” he says simply, and they talk no more.  
  
They give him three meals a day and keep him alive.  
Other prisoners do not communicate with him, simply watch him cautiously. Holmes fears they will plan something against him. It takes him seconds to pick apart their crimes—he has been sent to a violent prison, he knows that much.  
They get an hour outside a day, but Holmes hardly ever utilizes it. He prefers to stay inside the prison walls, where the stone and metal makes him feel both trapped and protected.  
There is fighting, lots of it. Over food. Over words. Over tiny scraps of wood and metal. Over a bad look in someone's eyes.  
Holmes does not speak to anyone. He does not provoke anyone. He keeps to himself. Sometimes Hugo murmurs to him, and he offers short replies.  
It is very, very lonely here.  
  
Watson does not come for the first three days.  
Holmes sits and waits patiently for someone to tell him he has a visitor. He cannot understand what is keeping Watson from him.  
Then finally, on a Saturday afternoon, he is listening quietly to the heavy pattern of rain bouncing off the archaic walls when a guard walks over to him.  
“You 'ave a visitor,” he says, not looking at Holmes. Holmes stands and grips the bars eagerly.  
It is, however, not John Watson.  
He sighs in disappointment, his chest crumbling in. No, not Watson. It is Brother Mycroft.  
Mycroft gives a distasteful look to the guard that quickly beckons the gentleman to leave, and the tips his hat and does so.  
“Hello, brother mine,” Mycroft says.  
“Mycroft,” Holmes replies, and after his initial disappointment that he was not John, he finds himself very glad to see his brother.  
“I see this place has not treated you well,” Mycroft huffs.  
Sherlock cracks a feeble smile.  
“It is prison, after all.”  
“Will you really be here for two years?”  
This question startles Sherlock, and he looks at his brother questioningly.  
“I am guilty, Mycroft.”  
“I know, brother mine. But you have always cared for justice over law, is that not so?”  
It is true. Many a time he has given grace to a criminal. That is just one reason he never did become a real detective—he obstructed justice and broke the law almost as often as he aided justice and enforced the law.  
“Yes,” he says. “I fear Watson is angry with me.”  
Mycroft gives him a thoughtful look for a moment, deciding how next to proceed.  
“It's rainy today. I fear the weather will only grow colder as the day goes on. I hope for sunshine tomorrow.”  
Sherlock smirks.  
“I, too, hope for brighter weather,” he says. “Goodbye, Mycroft.”  
“Goodbye, Sherlock. Good luck.”  
And he leaves.  
  
(It's rainy today) _We are making a plan._ (I fear the weather will only grow colder as the day goes on) _It is crucial._ (I hope for sunshine tomorrow) _Will you assist us?  
_(I, too, hope for brighter weather) _Yes, I will assist.  
  
  
_Watson does come to him.  
He comes a week into Holmes's stay in Newgate, and he does so very quietly. When Holmes sees him, his heart races. He attempts to look nonchalant but fails. This makes the guard weary of leaving them alone, but Watson talks to him out of earshot and he does so. The five pound note Watson slips him does not escape Holmes's eyes.  
“Watson,” he says softly as John finally reaches his cell. For a moment, Watson doesn't speak. They stare at each other, studying quietly, as they so often did at home.  
“You are even thinner than before,” Watson finally comments disapprovingly. “Are you eating all they give you?”  
“Yes, yes,” Holmes says. “I see Mrs Hudson has rubbed off on you yet more.”  
“Someone needs to take care of you.”  
More silence. Then Watson reaches out and touches Holmes's hand, the only thing within reach between the bars. Holmes reciprocates, fully grasping it.  
“You should not have done this, Sherlock,” John says gently. “I would never, had I known—“  
“I know, my dear man. That is precisely why I had to do it.”  
Because Watson always protects him. Because Watson shows him endless loyalty. Because he owes everything to Watson, including his life.  
“I believed it you know,” Watson continues. “For a moment, before the hearing.”  
Holmes looks at the ground.  
“I'm sorry. It was a necessary detail. I knew if I informed you of my plan, you would stop it.” Watson nods, for this is true. Yet he feels like he is on the wrong side of the bars. He should be with Holmes, by his side as he always is, through every danger.  
“You've talked to my brother?” Holmes says finally.  
“Yes. We. . .yes. Lestrade as well.”  
This surprises Holmes slightly.  
“Ah.”  
A prison guard near bye eyes them, warning that their time is nearly up.  
“Sherlock, I want you to know—“ Watson leans closer to the bars, out of earshot of any of the other prisoners. “I love you.”  
Holmes savors the details of Watson's face, unsure when he will see them again.  
“I love you too.”  
“We'll have to go on a walk soon. Get some fresh air.”  
John leaves.  
  
(We'll have to go on a walk soon) _Breaking_. (Get some fresh air) _free_.

 


	6. The Transfer

Holmes begins receiving letters.   
They are from Mycroft and Watson. They contain news of the outside world and more coded messages. Holmes replies to them diligently.   
Watson's weekly letter brightens his days. He keeps them in a neat stack beneath his pillow and rereads them frequently. A letter he opens often reads like this:   
  
  


_July 3d, 1895,  
  
My dearest Holmes,   
  
221b is empty of your energy. I find that without you to observe in all your eccentric habits and genius tactics, I grow dull of life here.   
Often I miss the sound of your violin, or even the sound of your feet treading upon the stairs. The smell of the cherry tobacco you like is no longer here either, and I even attempted smoking some of it myself just to bring back your familiarity.   
Mrs Hudson misses you also, I know this because she often huffs about how nice it is that your room is finally clean. Every time she says it I can see her face fall. We both want you to come back and keep making messes, I suppose.   
Though I know I cannot complain, because you are, without a doubt, under much worse and more stressful conditions. I cannot imagine how prison is treating you, but I know it is not well.  
I lay awake at night, thinking of your sacrifice to me. You have called me loyal and brave before, Holmes, but you rarely see this virtues in yourself. You talk only of your intellect, ignoring just how courageous you are. These are not words of guilt, my dear fellow, only the truth.   
The Irregulars come bye and I send them on idle errands just to give them money. I do feel sympathy for them, no matter how Mrs Hudson complains that they are grimy. They are just children, and I know how they rely on you for income.   
Some of them seem to understand your “crime” and choose to be indifferent about it, while the younger ones do not understand it much at all. I suppose they have been criminals themselves before, and see no reason to detest it.   
Please, do tell me what life is like at Newgate. Do the other prisoners hurt you? Have the guards ever laid hands upon you? Are you still eating every meal?   
  
Sincerely Yours, John Watson  
  
PS: The weather hasn't changed all week.   
  
  
_(The weather hasn't changed all week) _no_ _news_ _yet_.  
  


 

Holmes writes back to this immediately. He tells Watson he has not experienced any abuse, at least not any extra, and that the Gothic architecture of the prison is really very pretty, and tries to make it generally sound a bit brighter.   
He tells Watson not to worry himself, not to be guilty. He tells him to take however much is left in his desk (likely around a thousand pounds) and distribute it among the Irregulars. After all, he will have no use for money for quite some time. He also tells Watson not to gamble, and to stay out of danger. He can almost hear the doctor sighing.   
  
Word comes from Mycroft on 17th of July:   
  
  


 

 _July 17_ th, 1895,   
  
Brother Mine,   
  
You'll be glad to know we've caught that spy you were worried about, remember Dendruch, the German clergyman you suspected? You were right. He is in our custody now. Well done.   


_Sincerely, Mycroft_

 

_PS: The rain has traveled at an insane rate._

 

(The rain) _you_ (traveled) _will_ _be_ _going_ (at an insane rate) _to_ _a_ _mental_ _facility_.   
  
  
  
The letter comes as a shock to Holmes. Mycroft is having him transferred to an asylum. Why?   
He's heard rumors of inverts being “treated” via electroshock therapy at asylums, but doubted he himself would be sent to one.   
Watson has spoken to him about electroshock before—he's said it's almost definitely futile, and the theory behind it holds no water. Holmes, as ever, trusts his medical opinion. So inverting him cannot be the goal.   
Perhaps the reason he is being transferred is simply because the asylum will prove less difficult to infiltrate.   
  
  


They come for him the following morning. Two men, average looking, in frock coats.   
“'o are they?” Hugo croons.   
Holmes ignores him, only taking his meek stack of letters into his hands as the men escort him out, putting him in chains.   
Hugo seems to realize what's going on.   
“'e's goin' to the loony bin!” he laughs, his voice reverbing off the prison walls. “e's going to Bedlam! Bedlam, Bedlam, go and be a dead man!”   
The song sends Hugo into hysterics, and the man clutches his stomach as he chuckles uncontrollably. Holmes just blocks the sound from his ears.   
But he can't help but hear the name on Hugo's lips.   
_Bedlam_.   
It couldn't be, could it?  
  
  
  
Holmes is put in what seemed to be a large cage, similar to the ones in the police carriages. As the carriage moves, his stomach turns.   
It smells of urine and vomit.   
He has heard many a rumor surrounding Bedlam. Tales of torture and horror. People hung upside down from their feet, or left in isolation for months. He's heard of outbreaks of cholera and inmates strangling each other while the “doctors” watched.   
He doesn't know what rumors are true, but none of them are good.  
Why would Mycroft send him to the most notoriously cruel asylum in the country?

 

 


	7. Canaries in a Cage

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please keep in mind that Bedlam, like all the locations in this story, was a real place and therefore liberties are taken regarding what I say about it. Most of these things are taken from stories in asylums all over the world at that time. It's perfectly true that women were taken to asylums often for expressing grief. Other things in the story are vaguely accurate as well. Bedlam was a horrific place, though I couldn't find anything saying they used electroshock.

Bedlam reeks.   
The smell is indescribable, a mixture of urine, vomit, feces, sweat, and blood. Not unlike Newgate, the asylum itself is deceivingly beautiful, standing almost like a castle on the vast grounds, a Gothic masterpiece. It has been finished with remodeling this very year. If the horrors inside were not so, it would have been a lovely place to live.   
Inside, there is a lot of screaming.   
There is screaming and weeping and sounds that Holmes can hardly believe are human at all, so terrible and desperate they are.   
There are more women here than he thought there would be—he always thought women were of more sound minds then men, no matter how he dislikes the opposite sex.   
He tries not to gag on the smell as he is led to a cell, and he is surprised to see there are multiple people already occupying it—not only another man, but a young women also.   
The man cannot be much older than him—maybe forty-two, though his tired features age him. He is of an African complexion—though Holmes notices, to his surprise, that the man's eyes are green.   
The women is really more of a girl, Holmes thinks, as she cannot be older than twenty. Her eyes are large and brown, her skin fair, her hair a ratty nest of auburn. She is taller than average, thin, with bony fingers and an angular face. When she sees Holmes, he thinks for a moment she may weep in fright. She immediately curls behind the African man.   
“I am not to be feared,” Holmes says, hoping she will understand this. “I am very sane, mind you.”   
“She is afraid to be molested,” the other man explains, eyes narrowing at Holmes. “It is a cruel place here, with cruel men.” Holmes understands immediately.   
“I give you my word I would never do such a thing,” he says. “I would never harm a woman. I am something of a gentleman.” He manages a weak smile, trying to soften himself a bit. If he is to stay here, it would be better not to be alone. He is not one for making new friends, but he would rather not have new enemies. He can tell these two have bonded with each other—this older man has taken this girl under his protection, for whatever reason.   
“What is your name?” the man asks.   
“Sherlock Holmes.”   
This startles both of them, as their eyes widen. Evidently, they have heard of him.   
“The detective?” the girl says, speaking for the first time.  
“Yes,” Holmes says wearily. “I gather you have not heard of my recent imprisonment, given that you have both been here for over a year. I am truly sorry for your false stay here, madam, as I understand you are sane. I take it you are as well, my dear sir. I see you used to be a blacksmith.”   
The man raises an eyebrow, impressed.   
“I see you are as good as they say you are, Mr Holmes. Yes, indeed.” The man shifts, looking a bit somber. “I was doing well for myself, saving up to marry a lovely girl named Jane.” A small whispers briefly across his face. “But alas, she fell ill unexpectedly two years ago, and passed June of 1893. We were wed on her death bed.”   
“I'm sorry.”   
“Thank you. After she died, I fell into a pit of despair. It was perceived as insanity, and I was taken here.”   
Holmes nods, not surprised by the story. By the color of the man's skin, he can easily tell why an alienist would misdiagnose his grief.   
“What is your name?” he asks.   
“Elijah Smith, sir.”   
“It's a pleasure to meet you, and no need to use “sir.” Call me Holmes.”   
“Thank you, Holmes.”   
Holmes peers at the girl.   
“And you, miss?” he asks softly. “What is your story?”   
“No dissimilar,” she says quietly, still not peering far from Smith's protection. “I had a child who passed away within a week of his birth. I was destroyed. I would hear crying at night, sometimes, or dream of him. My husband said I was becoming delusional.”   
Holmes shakes his head. This really is a pity, he thinks. He makes a mental note that when he gets out of this place, he will launch an investigation into it's conduct.   
“And what is your name?”   
“Elaine Carpenter.”   
“Miss Carpenter, Mr Smith, how aware are you of my work?”   
“I've read Doctor Watson's stories,” Elaine says eagerly.   
“I as well. I've seen your cases in the papers, too,” Elijah says.   
“So I trust you understand I deal with many impossible problems?”   
“Yes.”   
Holmes steeples his hands, tucking them under his chin.   
“I think I shall take up your cases,” he says. “And get all of us out of here.”   
  
A letter comes from Mycroft:   
  
  


_Brother Mine,  
  
I hope you are healing well._ _I think perhaps you are beginning to understand why your transfer was necessary._ _I am enclosing a notebook and pen, so that you may write down your thoughts, and healing process._   
  
_Sincerely, Mycroft_

 

_PS: There is more than one canary in the cage_

 

 

 

(There is more than one canary in the cage) _You are not the only one who's trapped._  


 


	8. Electric

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did some research on electroshock and found it wasn't invented until the 1900s, but for the sake of fiction, it's in the story anyway. Some of the methods described (like the photograph of a lover) were used in real life.   
>  TRIGGER WARNING FOR TORTURE

Holmes is not hungry enough for supper, so he passes his pasty grey gruel to Miss Carpenter and sits in the corner with his hands steepled beneath his chin, already forming ideas.   
Mycroft sent him here to help innocent people escape cruel treatment. He needs proof that the facility was unjust. How?   
He'll start with notes. Conversations between him and inmates. The “treatment” he'll receive. Perhaps then he will get to the bottom of the matter.   
Serving his sentence by using it as a case makes Holmes smile slightly. He really is very good at making the best of situations, though, he misses Watson terribly.   
He thinks of him sitting in 221b, safe and warm and not laying on straw and stone, shivering from the dampness. He thinks of Watson eating a hardy meal cooked up by Mrs Hudson and having a warm fire and a mattress and blankets to sleep with. It puts his heart at ease a bit.   
He tries not to think of those two lonely, desolate years. It was many a time he slept in a place like this then—endured things unspeakable, things, to this day, he would never tell John. Leaving for two years is his biggest regret. He hopes he is making up for it now.   
Covering his nose and mouth with his arm to stifle the smell of urine and vomit, he gradually falls asleep.   
He dreams of getting out.   
  
  
The first time they take him out is Monday.   
Two men come to the cell, and Miss Carpenter flees behind Elijah, while he watches grimly, fist clenched. Holmes perks up curiously, wondering what dangers await. One of the men points to him.   
“You. Come.”   
Holmes obeys, and finds both his arms grabbed roughly.   
“May I ask what the nature of this little visit is?” he asks amiably.   
“Hush,” the man says, and he does.   
He is led through cell corridors and down a flight of stairs. In the lower level, everything is even more moist and grimy. It smells of mold and blood, and Holmes can already taste salt and metal on his tongue. Suddenly, a cold wave of fear grips him.   
It could be something out of one of Watson's silly fictitious novels. The room is dimly lit, and inside is a chair. Beside the chair is a box that has several dials. Attached to that is a helmet-like cap with wires pertruding from it. Holmes does not like it.  
One of the men shoves him into the chair and cuffs his hands and feet down. Panic settles over him, his hands growing clammy. He clenches and unclenches them.   
“What is that?” he jerks his head at the helmet now being placed on his head.   
“A new invention,” the man finally answers. “This should cure you of your inversion with time. We've had many successes.”   
“What will it do?”   
“You'll see.”   
  
He is strapped in.   
He is given a mouth guard to bite into.   
  


Suddenly, a photograph is in front of his face. His heart skips a beat. It's a photograph of John. How did they get it? Why do they have it?   
“Who is this?” demands the man.   
“John Watson.” Holmes swallows. Without warning, a terrible electric current courses through his body. It's the worst physical pain he's ever felt. He's unable to breathe, only convulse. Then it ends. HE trembles, gulping in air.   
“W-why—“   
“Look at him. Who is he to you?”   
“M-my friend.”   
More shock. This time Holmes is nearly sick on the floor. He squeezes his eyes shut.   
“Tell the goddamn truth!”   
“My lover!” he cries.   
The shock is worse this time, nearly 25 seconds long. He convulses, desperately trying to breathe but failing. He bites the mouth guard so hard it nearly breaks.   
He doesn't speak when it's over. He doesn't beg for it to end. He sits in the chair, shaking violently, praying they stop.  
They don't.  
The torture goes on. He passes out, when he wakes they continue. There is no clock to measure the time in here, but hours seem to pass. He dreads every second, relief comes and goes as quickly as it came. He is praying, he is fervent. He tries to think good thoughts, retreat to his mind, but the shocks come and cannot be ignored. The pain hurts so badly he thinks he must be dying.   
Then it ends. When, he does not know. They take the picture of Watson and tear it up in front of him. Tears come to his eyes.   
“Step on it!” one of the men yells. Holmes shakes his head, the tears falling, but then the other man strikes him across the face with a baton, sending him to the ground.   
He cannot control the trembles in his body.   
He cannot even stand up.   
“I told you to do something!” the man screams, and he is hitting him again and again and again, and Holmes feels every blow so sharp and hard pounding on his sore, abused muscles that his vision goes black.   
  
  


 


	9. There Is Much Hope For The Flowers

Miles away, Doctor John Watson's chest suddenly hurts. He clutches it.   
“Doctor Watson! Is something wrong?” Mrs Hudson goes to his side. “Your shoulder again?”   
“I'm fine,” he says, and wonders.   
  
  
Holmes wakes on the cot in his cell.   
He is shivering, covered by a sparse, terse blanket. His muscles scream and his head is pounding in rhythm like a sickening metronome. He has to sit still for several moments so as not to be sick on himself.  
He eventually opens his heavy eyes, and gradually sits up. Even the faint bit of light in the cell hurts his head.   
Cell, he thinks to himself, that's what it is, isn't it?   
This is not a place of care.   
Miss Carpenter is in her corner, though Elijah is gone.   
“Where's Mr Smith?” Holmes croaks.   
“He must do his labor today,” the girl tells him. “It is to raise our morals. They say work is good for the brain.”   
Holmes cannot totally disagree with that. He thinks of his long drought of cases. But was it really just no cases that makes him that way?   
He does not bother moving the thought onward.  
His body is weak, a feeling he despises. He has learned to ignore his body for the most part—it is, after all, almost irrelevant to his work, but lately Watson had been making him more aware of his needs—making him eat and sleep and all.   
Now, after prison, not only is he thinner and meeker, the torture he had experienced yesterday (was it yesterday? This morning?) has taken a much greater toll. He can feel his chest beginning to freeze.   
He looks away from Miss Carpenter, rolling to face the wall.   
“I am going to try to sleep,” he says. “If someone bothers you, do not hesitate to wake me.”   
He falls asleep too fast.   
  
When he wakes again, it is because someone is gently shaking him. It is Elijah.   
He is holding out a bowl of gruel.   
“I know you do not feel well,” he says, “but you need this. You've been coughing.” Holmes sits up weakly and thanks him, managing a small smile. He knows many other people here would've scarfed his supper down before he could even wake.   
He eats slowly, but it is futile. It lasts only a minute before he must rush to the chamber pot and hack it up.   
Mr Smith and Miss Carpenter say nothing, only giving him a grave look.   
  
  
It is over a week since he has bathed.   
It does not help that every few minutes he is getting up to hack his lungs out. His body temperature fluctuates at extreme highs and lows—he shivers but is hot, sweats but is cold—and his skin turns pasty.   
He is getting worried.   
Red dots start to pepper his skin.   
  
“Guard! Guard! We need a doctor!”   
Holmes wakes up to the yelling. He has slept for nearly an hour now, but dawn is cracking and Miss Carpenter's voice is shrill.   
“We've got a sick one!” she shrieks.   
“Please calm down, Elaine,” Elijah says softly. A guard notices, coming over to inspect.   
“Who?” he barks.   
“Mr Holmes, he's got typhoid! Look at his hands, he's got typhoid!”   
Miss Carpenter is nearly weeping in distress. Holmes looks at his hands wearily, and his stomach sinks when he sees the red splotches.   
“My baby had typhoid,” Elaine sobs. “Oh, my baby had it. Doctor! We need a doctor!”   
Elijah puts an arm around Miss Carpenter as the guard goes over to Holmes. He backs away quickly.   
“Looks like it,” he says disdainfully. “All right. We'll get 'em out.”   
He leaves.   
  
Holmes remembers nothing of the trip from the cell to the infirmary, only that it is cold, so, so cold, and he shivers so much he fears he will break. He knows he should be worrying for his life right now, but in the moment, nothing seems worse than the cold.   
He is undressed by someone, a nurse, he assumes, and given a cold sponge bath. Then he is put in a bed only slightly more comfortable than the cot in the cell.   
The pain is so violent it is hard to even be afraid. His stomach and muscles scream for attention. His whole body feels like a wasteland.   
At some point a doctor looks at him, and does a lot of nodding. Holmes thinks he hears something along the lines of, “be gone soon,” and, “too many bodies already.” It makes him feel sicker.   
All he can do is lie in wait.   
He thinks of Father Wentworth and God in the dark and he prays. He thinks of Watson and he prays harder.   
Then he drifts into another round of impossible sleep.   
  
He dreams that John comes to him.   
He dreams John reaches for him, and he reaches back, but then his body is too weak to grab his hand. “I don't want to go,” he says, but Watson is already too far away for him to reach.   
Some time around 1:00 in the morning, a letter is placed by his bedside.   
He cannot lift his hands to read it.  
  
The next morning, he feels himself worsening. He can barely breathe through the pain. Yet he aches to know the contents of the letter.   
It is from Watson—he can see by the type of post and the handwriting, and he yearns to open it. He will not have a nurse read it, fearing there is some private declaration of love inside. The thought makes him want to read it yet more.   
The nurse brings him more mush.   
“Eat it slowly,” she says. “And drink some water.”   
Holmes does.   
After he painstakingly finishes every bite, he knows he will have some extra energy before the food is gone once more. He uses it to take the letter in his trembling hands. It is short, luckily, so it takes little effort to read. It goes like this;   
  
  


 

“ _My Dear Sherlock,_  
  
I do not know why I feel particularly sentimental to-day, but for some reason, I feel you need it. I wanted to tell you again, though you know it well already, that I am waiting for you here. I cannot wait until you come home. You are, as always, my dearest friend and companion.   
  
Always Yours, John 

__  
PS: I know you love flowers, so I enclosed some. I thought perhaps they would brighten your day.”  
  


 

There is no code in the post script, but there are small, pressed flowers in the envelope.


	10. Fever

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi friends, sorry for not posting, my friends been over, I've had drivers ed, (almost every night) forensics class, and I've been promoted at my state's police explorers (sergeant!!!!)....so I'm busy lol.   
>  Anyway, here's a new chapter.

_One Month Ago_

 

Detective Inspector Lestrade walks into the Diogenes Club and slips the man at the desk a note. The man nods with a curt expression and takes the dry, wrinkled piece of paper. He slips it into a drawer and gestures for Lestrade to move to the door.   
Lestrade does so, hearing every echo of his shoes hit the floor in the silent room. He walks through the door and nods to the man, who gives a nod back and moves away.   
Mycroft is sitting in his room, sipping tea and eating a scone. Lestrade was initially surprised by the man's size, given the build of his brother, but his gross form is soon forgotten within the intensity and intelligence of his face, particularly his watery grey eyes. They are Sherlock's eyes as well, and this is really the only resemblance the brothers share.   
“Inspector Lestrade,” Mycroft says languidly. “Thank you for coming on such short notice. Please, have a seat.”   
The Inspector sits in the armchair across from Mycroft's and drums his fingers on the arm. He knows nearly nothing about Mycroft Holmes, except for Sherlock's scarce words about him, but from what he gathers, he is a very important person. This could very well be blackmail he is about to receive.   
“It is no trouble, Mr Holmes,” he says nervously. “I was very sorry to hear of your brother's conviction. He's a good man, helps the Yard often.”   
“Yes, I know,” Mycroft says, putting down his tea. “That's why I called upon you. I think you know, Inspector, that I am a blunt man, like my brother, so I will tell you immediately why you are here.”   
Lestrade gulps and prepares to listen.   
“Detective, you see, I think my brother has proven to be very useful to you, and I do believe you regret having to investigate him in the first place.”   
“Of course,” Lestrade mutters. “Mr Holmes—the other Mr Holmes, that is, is my friend.”   
“Right. Well, I am going to get him out of prison.”   
Lestrade pauses, confused.   
“Oh?”   
“Yes, and you are going to help me.”   
“Erm. . .”  
“I trust you will do so quite in your own conviction,” Mycroft says, standing up and facing the window. “But if you need a little egging on, we could talk about those cases of my brothers which you have taken credit for.”   
Lestrade looks up sharply.   
“How can I help?”   
  
  
  
  
  
_Present day_  
  
  


Holmes's fever is still high. He grips the letter in his hands as if it is his only life source, and indeed, it seems it is.

Sometimes he feels he is slipping, slipping down into a long, dark slope. He is tired, so tired, but he clutches the letter like a lifeline and tries not to give in.   
The nurse quietly cleans him up, feeds him, and gives him medicine, but doesn't speak to him at all. She doesn't tell him he has typhoid or that he's going to die. She just treats him wordlessly and stoically .   
Holmes's fever begins to reach it's height. He begins to see and hear things that aren't there. Sometimes he thinks he is in France again, or in prison, or dead. Sometimes he thinks he sees Watson, but he is too tired to speak or move and cannot call to him. He hears screaming. He hears his name.   
Then he realizes he is the one that is screaming, and the nurse is hushing him, but he can hardly even recognize his own voice. He croaks Watson's name feebly.   
He has never been in so much pain. 

 

There is a light somewhere.   
  
Someone is gripping his hand.   
Someone is saying his name.   
  
“Sherlock. Sherlock.”   
  
His eyes flutter open heavily. He knows the voice, of course, but is it real, or a fabrication of his feverish mind?   
No, someone is holding his hand.   
Watson's face peers down at him, all concern and hurt and too much for him to handle. He nearly weeps in relief.   
“John,” he says, and it's more like a whimper.   
“It all right, love, I'm here.”   
Holmes sobs.   
  
They do not speak for a while. Holmes lets the tears of pain and guilt fall, and he trembles and tries to control himself.   
“You cannot be near me,” he realizes, and the moment is a fresh horror, but Watson just gives him a small, sad smile.   
“I've had it before, Holmes. As a child. It will no longer affect me.”   
Holmes nods in relief. He will ask Watson about it later. He is still in tremendous pain, and has to be silent for several more moments before he can speak through it again.   
“How did you know?”   
“I had a feeling something wasn't right when no word came from you after my letter. I came after a week of sending it.”   
A week. How long has he been here? How long has the letter been clutched in his hand?   
He lifts it, and it is still there, crinkled and wet with sweat.   
“I kept it,” he says. “I did not know it had been so long. I thought it had been just a night.”   
He eases it onto the stand beside him, where the flower petals lay. They are no longer fresh and colored, but shriveled and brown.   
He looks at John with baleful eyes, eyes to pity instead of revere. It is almost unbearable.   
“I am going to die,” he says.  
Watson nearly crumples, and Holmes can see his face fall, can see the pain manifest inside him.  
“I don't want you to worry,” Holmes says, “but I also cannot give you false hope.”   
“I survived this, and so will you.”   
“You know it it is bad, John. I cannot eat or drink, it won't stay up. My hands. . .” His voice cracks. His hands are a red mess. He cannot keep them steady.   
“Sherlock Holmes will not die of typhoid, I won't allow it,” Watson says firmly. “Especially not because of me. I'm going to stay with you, Holmes. They'll let me treat you. Just hold on. For me, please.”   
Holmes cannot look at him.   
“For you, John, I will do my best.” 

 


	11. A Storm

John Watson is a man who relies upon his instincts.   
So when Holmes did not return his letter, and a feeling settled in his gut that something was wrong, of course he rushed to find the problem.   
It had been a hassle—he had to show the nurses proof he was a medical practitioner to be able to enter, and he was sure they had no details regarding his relationship with Holmes.   
So, although it took some time, he got in.   
Seeing Holmes curled up upon the bed, pale, gaunt, and trembling stirred the worst concerns in his mind imaginable.   
But now he's here, and he must take care of him. He does not leave Holmes's side except to eat. All day and night, he sits in wait for Holmes's fever to break.   
He alternates between piling blankets on the man and dosing him in an icy bath. Holmes is like a puppet, sad and lifeless and hardly aware of what Watson is doing.   
Instead, Holmes's mumbles nonsense and bursts into strange fits of yelling or crying, even laughing sometimes. It terrifies Watson so deeply that he is sure one more day of it will be too much.   
But somehow, he continues.   
He feeds off of the occasional alert response from Holmes, becoming more and more scarce. Most of the time now, it is just his name; “John” or “Watson” mumbled in a fearful, broken voice. Watson gives his hand a squeeze a murmurs a gentle, “I'm here,” every time, just in case he can hear him.   
The thought of losing Holmes a second time is freshly horrifying in his mind every time he is reminded that Holmes has typhoid, and could very well die. Not to mention his use of cocaine has not left his body unharmed.   
But perhaps even worse than this fear, which still seems to unreal to be a concern, is the pain Holmes is in every second he is awake.  
He can imagine it, because he has been through it, though his body was young and strong at the time. Recalling those scarce memories brings a sharp spike of dread through him. He has not forgotten the pain.   
The best times are when Holmes is asleep. In a very deep sleep, particularly. This is the only time he seems to be relieved, though Watson still continues to nervously check his pulse to make sure he does not slip away.   
Watson becomes fearful to sleep at all, afraid that Holmes will quietly pass away if he closes his eyes.   
“You must live,” he mutters tiredly to Holmes one night. It is not really night—more early morning, though the sun has not come yet. He is dozing, his head getting dangerously close to Holmes's pillow.   
“You must,” he whispers. “I need you.”   
He falls asleep. 

 

Holmes wakes in the morning.   
He wakes and is aware of the hour.   
He wakes and can feel his limbs.   
He looks around, and there is no broiling feels in his gut. His skin is a normal temperature, and he is able to hold his hands steady without trembling.   
His fever has broken.   
He is frozen for a moment, then he smiles wide. He chuckles in delirious relief. He is alive. He is going to be fine.   
Watson slowly begins to rouse from his deep slumber, looking at Holmes in confusion.   
“Are you okay?” he asks urgently. “What's wrong?”   
Holmes looks at him with a grin.   
“My fever is broken, Watson,” he says, “I am going to live.”   
Watson smiles, weeping in relief, and they both fall back into an exhausted slumber.


	12. The Plan

It is not until two days later that Holmes starts to full recover.   
His symptoms banish slowly, but the first thing ti return is, of course, his sharpened mind. His mumblings and delusions disappear and he is once again his old self, griping about being bedridden and talking endlessly about any idle history he may.   
He is feeling better than he has since the investigation started—with Watson by his side again, he is completely reanimated. Though he fears it will not last long.   
He doesn't speak of the torture—it is still too fresh in his mind, and he will not worry Watson anymore than he is already worried. But he does talk of Elijah Smith and Miss Carpenter, and he tells him their stories.   
“It makes tremendous sense now, why my brother sent me here,” he says. “For them. For all the sane people here, and all the insane, in fact, subjected to poor treatment. It is a terrible injustice, Watson. I'd sooner imprison the alienist who sent them here.”   
“Holmes, perhaps you are not remembering that you yourself are a patient here,” Watson reminds him. “You must be cautious.”   
Holmes huffs.   
“Caution will do one no good here.”   
  
He learns of the escape plan four days after his fever breaks.  
Watson tells him, in detail for the first time, what is to be done:   
For the next month, he will write and record everything he sees. He will get one visiting day August 15th, instead of his brother or Watson visiting him, it will be a man called Horace Jennings, an undercover detective of Scotland Yard. Holmes is to then give him the journal of his findings.   
If the records show substantially inhumane behavior, Horace Jennings will return after showing increasingly unstable behavior. He is then to pretend he is insane for another week to corroborate Holmes. When this is done, Holmes and Jennings will be released and Scotland Yard will begin to openly investigate Bedlam. Because he helped Scotland Yard, Holmes's sentence will be reduced to the time he already served.   
All this, planned by Mycroft Holmes, with the help of a certain Inspector Lestrade.   
  
It is five days after his fever breaks that Watson must leave.   
Holmes can no longer pretend he still has symptoms, and the nurses are growing increasingly suspicious of his condition.   
“This will all be over soon,” Watson tells him. “And you will return to 221b, and all will be well again. You'll still write me?”   
“Of course, my dear doctor. Stay away from danger while I am gone. And stay away from gambling.”   
Watson gives an exasperated smile at the mention of his two addictions.   
“Yes yes. Goodbye, Holmes.”   
“Goodbye, Watson.”   
They can say nothing more, it is too dangerous here.   
  
It rains the next morning over Bedlam, rains an oppressive, beating rainy reflective of Holmes's mood. He has returned to his cell, healthy once more, but terribly depressed about no longer having a friendly face about. He lived alone for many years, but they were lonely years still, and he had always visited Mycroft.   
At least he has Mr Smith and Miss Carpenter. At first he is silent, but their curious looks soon become too much.   
“You are wondering how my plan is going,” he says.   
“Yessir, not to press too much,” Elijah says anxiously. “It's jus, me and Elaine have been in here for some time. The chance to get out. . .”   
“I know,” Holmes replies softly. “And you will. Patience is key. I have a plan in place that will grant you lawful freedom. You will just have to wait and trust me.”   
Elijah Smith nods, leaving the burning questions in his throat unasked.   
  
  
  
  
  


 


	13. Phase One: Evidence

For the next two weeks, Holmes learns of the routine of Bedlam Asylum.   
Labor circulates. When it is his turn, he follows a guard out of his cell and outside, where he is usually to move stones about. It is difficult because of the strength he lost to his fever, and he goes slowly. He knows if he were to collapse, they would not save him.   
Breakfast and lunch are the same—a pasty gruel substance, but dinner at least as bits of some unknown meat (Holmes's theory is pork, but he cannot be sure) and a cup of water. Lights are out at ten.   
They do not bring him back down to the electroshock chamber. They watch him quietly, seeing how he fares by himself. For the first time in his life, he forces himself to remain obedient.   
They take Elijah and Miss Carpenter away frequently, and they return tired or shaking or bruises or all, and often days later. Holmes tries not to pry too far into what they experience, but he still asks and writes it down. What they describe is so grotesque it is difficult to do so.   
They do not allow him to bathe for weeks, this irritates him. His skin itches and crawls and he is sure he has lice. But he does not say anything.   
He writes everything in his journal, which he stuffs into a hole in his mattress at night. He writes to Mycroft, giving him only cryptic indications of the evidence he is gathering. He writes to Watson to give them both hope that he will soon be home.   
Every day is a battle, but he survives.  
  
  
A month goes by and Holmes eagerly waits for Horace Jennings on visiting day. He is disappointed, of course, that it will not be Watson who comes to him, but the mission is crucial.   
At noon, a finely dressed man with a short trimmed black beard and handle bar mustache appears in a long coat. He goes to Holmes's cell, out of earshot of the guard, his face pressed closely against the bars.   
Elijah and Elaine both peer over curiously, but do not say anything. Holmes takes out the journal and brings it discreetly to Jennings, who tucks it into his coat.   
“Thank you, Mr Holmes,” he says. “Your brother and Inspector Lestrade send their greetings.” Holmes nods.   
“Thank you sir. I trust I will be seeing you very soon.”   
“Indeed.”   
Jennings tips his hat and leaves.   
  
  
Holmes waits nervously, afraid the evidence he has collected will not be enough. Elijah and Miss Carpenter do not pry into these affairs, trusting him completely in a blind faith Holmes cannot understand, not after they've been here so long.   
But he will not let them down. 

Jennings comes in on a rainy day the first week of May. Holmes scarcely sees him, but he can see that he is putting up a fight with the guards. They take him to a cell too far for Holmes to see, but he catches glimpses of him during labor hours and such. His performance of insanity is an excellent one, Holmes must admit.  
He can feel Elijah and Elaine growing restless, as he himself is. Every day he is tired like he has never been tired before, every bone and muscles screaming in relief when he lowers himself upon his cot. Those days in May, his only relief comes at night, when he lays on his mattress and breathes. He tells himself how the suffering will be over soon.   
And he tries to believe it.

 

 

The greatest terror comes that Monday.   
It is a regular day, and Holmes is preparing himself for it, when he hears a commotion not far from him.   
“I said get up, you old cow!”   
An old man is refusing to leave his bed for labor. Holmes presses himself farther, trying to hear. He can hear someone telling the guard the man is sick.   
“Please sir, he is 90 years old,” the man says, but the guard ignores it.   
The old man whimpers and groans, and then the blows begin to fall.   
Holmes can hear the first one like a cannon, a the sickening _WHAP_ of the baton across the man's back. The man screams.   
Holmes's heart races.   
He tries to get the attention of the guard near him.   
“Sir, sir stop him this instant!” he cries, but the man just shakes his head. “STOP THIS!” he yells desperately, unable to reach the poor soul. But his pleading goes nowhere. Instead, he is forced to hear every blow as it falls, every cry of the man, until suddenly, it is silent.   
He feels sick.   
He squeezes his eyes shut as he hears the other man in the cell weep. They bring the body out and dump it wherever they do.   
Holmes scarcely has the strength of heart to write it down.

 


	14. An Ugly World Indeed

Holmes still hears the screams of the man long after they die. He shivers, wondering who is next. How many people will die here?  
He decides to make it his mission to find out where they put the bodies.   
  
It is his day to work.   
He moves stones, his muscles screaming in aching protest. Each is heavier than the last, the largest ones at the bottom of the towering pile. It is raining out, and each droplet stings his face. His clothes are soon soaked.   
If this has one benefit, it is the water. He gets a better wash moving the stones and sloshing through the mud than he has in months via cold baths. He even takes a hand and run it through his hair, shaking it.   
“Back to work!” a guard snaps at him, and he returns to it sullenly.   
  
He has no view of the other side of Bedlam from his workplace on the grounds, but he intends to see where they are disposing of bodies. He does not trust they are reaching respectful graves.   
Jennings is several yards behind him, playing the part of severely disturbed man with astonishing commitment. He bursts into laughter and weeping at random, and murmurs of a dead wife. He does not talk to Holmes, or anyone, instead taking in his eyes a look of utter otherness, like he is not even seeing them.   
Holmes admires his acting skills, and would try his techniques if he were not intent upon making it clear that he was, in fact, sane.   
Nonetheless, his inversion is viewed as a mental illness, so in the eyes of law, he is not.   
The thought makes him smile a bit because—well he is a madman, isn't he? That's what Watson calls him; a mad genius. Only, the term is more endearing from his lips.   
  
  
Phase II is to begin in two days when the doctors come to Holmes's cell.   
He sits idly, waiting for them to take Elijah or Miss Carpenter, but they do not. Instead, they call his name.   
He sits up and looks at them in confusion.   
“Holmes, now!” the doctor snaps. “You are well enough for more treatment!”   
His stomach sinks to the floor.   
  
  
There is nothing he can do but follow them, follow them into the dark and violent chamber. He sees the machine, and it alights fear within him that makes him tremble.   
He is angry that he is so afraid, but he can feel his hands clam up and soon, they are trying to force him into the chair, and he finds himself fighting.   
It is the wrong instinct, he knows, the wrong thing to do. It goes against logic and reason, but his primal emotions take over and he is throwing punches at the doctors, kicking, clawing, and kneeing. He only gets in one good hit before four of them have his malnourished body pinned to the ground.   
He squirms only for a moment, then realizes what he is doing. His knuckles are bleeding and he fears one of his wrists may be broken, because searing, red hot pain is flaming through it. His face is pressed to the damp, foul smelling floor, and he is nearly weeping.   
“Throw him in solitary,” one of them says in disgust, and Holmes knows it is the one he hit.   
“How long?” another asks.   
“I'll handle him when I see fit to do so.” 

 

He is brought to an even darker and lower part of the asylum, one he has never seen before. At the end of the hall way there is a single door.   
His heart is pounding. He has made a grave mistake and he knows it. He has heard whispers of solitary before, of horrors unfit for the human mind.   
When they reach the door, one of the guards shoves him in front of it.   
“Strip,” he demands. Holmes stares at him, processing that. He squeezes his eyes shut tightly, and does as he says.   
“All the way,” the guard snaps gratingly. Holmes takes a shaky breath.   
It is for humiliation. Nothing more. They do not believe this will heal him. They want to break him.   
He finishes the command.   
“Get in the cell.”   
He drinks in the last bit of semi-fresh air he will get for a while, then steps in.  
The door slams, and it is only him and the darkness.   
  
  
For the first two hours, it is menial, but bearable.   
He sits with his back pressed against the cold wall. It is very cold here, and he has made heat out of folding in on himself, hugging his knees.   
There is a small window, but there is no sunlight filtering through, for it is blocked by an overgrown bush.   
His bare skin crawls in the freezing room, and he is acutely aware of the state of his body: his ribs sticking from his stomach, and his limbs like tree branches, thin, twisted, ugly. He cradles his mutilated wrist, now bruising and swelling.   
It is an ugly world, in this cell, he decides. It is an ugly world outside too—a world where sane people are treated like animals, and sick people just the same. He thinks of the man being beaten to death, and of Miss Carpenter and Mr Smith, and he thinks of the man he saw curled up and weeping and scratching out his own eyes on his cot, and the world is suddenly a very ugly place indeed.   
He lowers his head into his arms, deciding he will sleep. It is the only thing that may help the pain in his wrist subside, at least for a bit.   
_All this,_ he thinks, _for loving a man._

 


	15. Three Doors

Mycroft receives news from Jennings regularly. He relays all the information in his artillery to Watson and Lestrade, who diligently do their part. Lestrade, to inform fellow investigators and work on their plan, and Watson, to relay the information to Holmes and keep his spirits up.   
Then, Mycroft receives news that hastens his plan.   
“Mr. Holmes, sir, news for you from Bethlehem.” He scarcely even remembers the asylum's true name, as opposed to it's crude, more commonly used nickname.   
“Yes?”   
“Your brother's been sent to solitary, sir.”   
Mycroft pales.   
  
  
Night falls, or at least, Holmes thinks it has. He has long ago lost time in here. He is cold, so cold he is almost hot. His skin stings and tingles, and no matter how he rubs his arms for warmth, it is not enough.   
_Think of warm things, and then you shall be warm,_ he thought. He thought of hot summer days and warm blankets and hot fires. He thought of being wrapped in a large wool coat or curled up in bed. From sheer force of will, he felt his temperature rise just slightly.   
He tries to sleep.   
  
Watson stuffs his revolver in his coat. “Are you sure it is time?” he asks Mycroft urgently.   
“We need to act immediately,” Mycroft says shortly, “My brother could be in grave danger. They don't last long in solitary at Bedlam.”   
“I'll assemble a force,” Lestrade says gravely.   
“Good good, Dr Watson and I will meet you there.”   
  
_Sleep. Be warm and sleep._ He fears he may get sick if he is in here much longer. There is a rat eyeing him suspiciously.   
His wrist is swollen.   
  
“May I help you, gentleman?”   
“Yes, we are here concerning two patients, Mr Horace Jennings and Mr Sherlock Holmes,” Mycroft tells him impatiently.   
“We are not taking visitors today, sir—“   
“I need to see them both immediately. It may be a matter of life or death—“   
“They are in our care, sir—“   
Watson draws his revolver and points it in the mans face.   
“Perhaps you will reconsider,” he says.   
Mycroft smiles.   
  
“God have mercy,” Holmes mutters as the rat draws nearer. He swats at it, but misses. The huge black creature dives for his arm in wild rage. He yelps and swings his arm in an arc, the nasty omen keeping grip with a pair of razor teeth. Searing pain grips him and he finally manages to throw it off. It flies against the wall and dies instantly, lying at his feet. He grips his now bleeding forearm.   
  
They are led to Jennings first. When he sees them, his face immediately brightens.   
“Gentlemen,” he says cheerfully.   
“Detective Jennings, lovely to see you,” Mycroft says.   
“You're two days early.”  
“I saw your message as very urgent.”   
“Indeed. Do hand me the keys and I will show you to his cellmates.”   
The doctor who had led them there nervously unlocks his cell door. Jennings steps out, brushing himself off.  
  
  
Holmes is dizzy from blood loss. The rat bit deeper than he had previously thought, and he grips it tightly as blood oozes down his bare skin.   
_Let me live,_ he thinks to no one in particular, _let me live, for John.  
  
_ Elijah Smith and Elaine Carpenter are surprised to say the least at the sight of the four men standing in front of them. Their eyes widen as the cell is unlocked.   
“I'm Detective Horace Jennings of Scotland Yard,” Jennings explains. “On recommendation of Mr Sherlock Holmes, you are to be sent for re-evaluation by our own technicians, and released at least until we have completed an investigation on this institution.”  
Elaine begins to weep. Elijah smiles at the ceiling.   
“Thank you Lord,” he whispers. “Thank you.”  
  
He is exhausted, fighting now for consciousness rather than sleep. He wants to cry out for a guard, but the room is certainly sound-proof. He does not know what he is waiting for now.   
_I will not die here.  
  
_ “We need to get to Sherlock,” Watson says anxiously, forgetting even to use his companions last name. “Where in God's name is Lestrade?”   
“Here, my dear fellow,” a voice calls from behind them. It is Lestrade, and several more policemen. Watson lowers his revolver.   
“Then let's go find him.”  
  
 _The bodies. I want to know where they keep the bodies,_ he remembers foggily. He wants to know if they are dumping them. He must stay awake and find out.   
  
Watson's heart is pounding. _We will finally get him out of here,_ he thinks. _We'll finally go home._  
  
 _Which way did they take the old man out? Down Corridor B, to the right. There are three possible exists from there, the door at the end of the hall, the door one hundred yards down the corridor to the left, or 600 yards to the right.  
  
_ “They took Mr Holmes yesterday,” Elijah tells Lestrade. “I think they may have tortured him. We haven't seen him since.”   
“What kind of torture?”   
Smith's face darkens.   
  
_Only two men carried the body, but more were present. If they were going to carry him all the way to the first door, they would have employed more men. Therefor, it is not the first door.  
  
_ “Down this hall,” one of the doctors tells them after they rumble down the stairs into a poorly lit hallway.   
  
_The door 600 yards to the right opens to Yard C, which is perpendicular to Yard A, meaning it cannot be that door, because they would be seen by laborers in Yard A. That leaves the last door._ He no longer has the strength to clutch his arm. Blood is dripping down his whole body.   
  
“There!” Watson hisses when he catches sight of the door.   
“Open it up,” a policeman tells the guard, who hesitantly takes out a key.   
“Now!”   
  
_The door a hundred yards to the left opens to Yard F, about 4.8 kilometers away from the building to the right. There is no burial ground there.  
_His vision is blurry.   
The door bursts open.   
  
  
__  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


 


	16. Silence

Watson's heart hits the floor at the sight of Holmes passed out against the wall, bleeding and naked. He rushes to his side, shedding his coat to wrap around him and rifling through his medical bag.   
“He's been bitten by something,” he pants. The sight of Holmes in this state clouds his mind, but he needs to focus on stabilizing him.   
“A rat?” Mycroft says, catching sight of the creature on the floor.   
Watson lifts Holmes's hand away from his arm. Holmes is sticky with blood. The wound is surprisingly deep, and Watson can see that in tearing the creature away, Holmes accidentally created a more serious wound.   
Watson carefully treats the wound. It takes him almost half an hour to properly disinfect and wrap it. Then he puts a makeshift cast on the broken wrist. All the while, he thinks of how painful it must have been, and how cold the man seems to be. When Holmes is stabilized, Watson brushes the overgrown hair from his eyes.   
“Holmes, can you hear me?” he says. Holmes only flinches in response.   
“We need to get him out of here,” Lestrade says gravely. Watson nods, worried. His own coat does not cover Holmes's body sufficiently, so an officer who had gone to fetch a blanket hands it to Watson. Watson wraps him up, he is still shivering violently despite being unconscious.   
Mycroft helps him lift Holmes up, and together, they carry him out.   
They leave Bedlam behind.   
  
They take Mycroft's private carriage to 221b, Holmes, Watson, and Mycroft, that is. Lestrade and the force, meanwhile, deal with more legal matters at the asylum.   
Holmes does not rouse until he is dragged inside the flat.   
“Oh dear!” Mrs Hudson cries upon seeing him.   
“Don't concern yourself, Mrs Hudson,” Watson tells her, though she begins to fuss about getting warm blankets and tea.   
“Body dump,” Holmes slurs deliriously. Watson sighs, just barely cracking a smile.   
“Pleasant, my dear. Up the stairs, now.”   
Between the strength of himself and Mycroft, they all Holmes up the stairs and through the door. He is remarkably light, and Watson realizes he probably could have carried the man by himself, a fact he does not particularly like.   
They get him into bed, give him some brandy, and wash his hair. It is too long, and his jaw is lined with thickening stubble. Watson brushes his fingertips against it.   
“When he is better, he'll take a proper bath and trim all of this, get cleaned up.” Mycroft nods, not particularly interested in his brother's toilet.   
“I must be going now, Doctor,” Mycroft says. “It is late, and I have matters to attend to at the Diogenes Club.”   
“Of course,” Watson says. “I'm sure Sherlock will thank you when he wakes, I'll send you a telegram when he is feeling more himself, or if any other matter developes. Thank you. For everything.” He means it, more genuinely than he can express.   
Mycroft just gives a little nod, and shows himself out.   
  
  
  
Holmes thinks he has perhaps died.   
He thinks he is dead because he no longer feels any pain, and he is warm and calm and at peace, but that is not possible.   
Then he feels his body start to wake up.   
The pain of his arm and wrist returns, assuring him he is, in fact, not dead. But he also feels blankets around him, and a mattress beneath him, a mattress and blankets that feel suspiciously like the ones he and Watson share.   
No... it can't be?   
_Perhaps I have died,_ he thinks, _and there is such a thing as heaven._  
He hears a soft voice.   
“Holmes?”   
He blinks heavily, forcing himself out of his coma-like sleep. He is indeed in his room at 221b. Relief floods his chest so fiercely that he nearly weeps.   
“I'm home,” he chokes.   
Watson smiles gently.   
“Yes, Holmes, you are home.”   
  
  
  
  
`When Holmes feels well enough to get out of bed, he bathes thoroughly, shaves, and trims his hair. He puts on a dressing gown.   
Everything he usually took for granted became a fresh wonder to him. Hot tea and food, and warm water, and clean clothes. It seems almost too good to be true.   
Watson is gentle with him, treating him like a piece of fine art he has been trusted to handle. He is by his side every moment, and Holmes cherishes it. He has missed his Boswell more than anything else.   
They exchange few words, instead speaking through small touches and smiles. They don't need to talk, not when they are synced at the heart.   
When all is done, and Holmes is sufficiently taken care of, they lie down together and Watson wraps his arms around him. Holmes sinks into the embrace, and they stay that way in silence for the rest of the night.

 


	17. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a fun one guys! Please do tell me what you'd like to read next for a new long fic! Much love, Nim :)

Holmes goes to his brother and Lestrade to thank them the next day, after an amazing breakfast feast cooked by Mrs Hudson, and the best cup of tea he has ever had.   
Mycroft brushes aside his gratitude, but Lestrade seems to be happy about it. Holmes is officially free—receiving time served in his appeal the following week.   
It is in the papers, of course. His entire undercover operation takes the media into a “spy story” frenzy, and it seems everyone forgets his crime. Sometimes, he will hear a whisper on the street of that dirty Holmes fellow—and Watson will be about ready to turn around and fight, but they pull along and say nothing of it. People will always talk.  
He is closer to Watson than ever before. His sweet Watson, who rewraps his bandages and soothes him when he wakes talking of rats and electricity. He has never been more grateful for the help of his companion.   
He keeps in touch with Lestrade. They find a body dump exactly where Holmes thought it would be—an inhumane mass grave, body on top of body and bone beneath bone. It is a nightmare.   
For a month, he takes no other cases. He works with Lestrade on Bedlam, and individuals inside. He identifies the bodies of people who died without it ever been reported. He sends the man who raped Miss Carpenter to prison.   
It is some weeks before he hears from Miss Carpenter and Mr Smith—that is, until one afternoon there is a knock on the door.   
“A client?” Watson says, getting up to answer.  
“No, I don't think so.”   
Sure enough, it is Elijah Smith and Elaine Carpenter.   
They are both dressed in new clothes, with new haircuts. Holmes can see that Miss Carpenter's skin is far fairer than he thought when all the grime is washed from it—and he can see the strong, handsome jawline of Mr Smith without his overgrown beard. They both glow with happiness.   
“You must be Doctor Watson,” Elijah says, shaking Watson's hand.   
“Yes sir. What brings you here? Oh, please come in.”   
They do, and upon seeing Holmes, Elaine rushes at him and tackles him into a fierce embrace. Holmes staggers back, a bit startled, then he smiles and returns it.   
“Thank you, Mr Holmes,” she says tearfully, drawing away. “You have saved our lives.”   
“Truly,” Smith agrees, shaking Holmes's hand eagerly.   
“So you are Mr Smith and Miss Carpenter then,” Watson says softly. Elijah removes his hat.   
“How rude of me not to introduce myself, sir. Forgive me, I have not seen regular society in many years.”   
“Of course, it's no trouble. Sit, please. Cigar?”   
Smith takes one and lights it. Holmes does the same with a cigarette, and Mrs Hudson brings tea.   
“How have you adjusted to civilian life?” Holmes asks. Smith twiddles his hands.   
“It's not been easy, Mr Holmes.”   
“No, Watson could tell you the same.”   
“Yessir, I read as much in A Study in Scarlet. But I think I may be able to find a job at the docks. They need strong workers.”   
“Good, good. And you, Miss Carpenter?”   
Elaine beams.   
“I'm engaged, Mr Holmes,” she says excitedly. “A lovely young man by the name of Scott O'brien proposed to me. We're to live in a cottage just south of Dover, a place called Swingate.”  
“Congratulations,” Holmes says, taking another drag. “I'm glad to hear you have both found your lives once more.”   
They both nod, and for a bit, they chatter on. Bedlam is not mentioned.   
  
  
When Holmes decides it is time to take cases again, he expects business to be slow.   
Instead, it surges.   
A new class of people bring him cases—people from the slums, people from the most despised parts of life. Whores and inverts and the poor, and he helps them all, given that they are of a fair character. Evidently, his recent jail sentence seems to have brought him an entirely new type of client—the criminal.   
But it is not the types of criminal he battles, and so, he is grateful for this new surge of fascinating people with fascinating stories. In a couple years, a prostitute named Elizabeth Stride will come to him, telling him tales of her escape of a vicious killer at Whitechapel. He will solve the case quietly, without a soul knowing but him and Watson.   
  
  
“So many new and interesting cases,” Watson says one day. “I wish I could write more of them, though I think the general public would find them unacceptable.”   
“Humph. Well, you can changes the details. You always do,” Holmes says.   
Watson smiles at the teasing.   
“Do you think perhaps, if I write them the way they truly are, one day, the world can know?”   
Holmes ponders it. Then, he smiles, and faces Watson.   
“I think, my dear Watson,” he says, “That some day, the true story may be told. For now, it is just mine and yours.”   
  
End.

 


End file.
